Starving For You
by PandaFire McMango
Summary: Everyone is having a lot of trouble dealing with Angel's death...but Collins is the worst. Maureen has to fight to keep him from giving into the grief and from trying to join Angel wherever she is. rated T becuase it is sad. CollinsMaureen friendship.


**hello. slightly angsty fic here,** **just a thought i had AGES ago. see what you think. I love Collins and Maureen.**

Maureen hurried up the stairs, blowing on her cold fingertips. October was harsh in New York, and today was no exception. All she wanted to do was curl up in a warm bed and go to sleep, but that was about as likely as Joanne giving her a normal look instead of a dirty one. Pretty damn impossible.

The last week was eligible to be filed under one of the worst of her life. There was the main reason; the pain and grief and sorrow that seemed to drag down her limbs and gnaw incessantly at her heart. The loss of Angel did not treat any of them well. They had known it was coming, but so soon? Maureen had had nightmares…ones where Angel flitted between trees, crying for help but always out of reach. And worse.

But most of them weren't able to be left alone with their grief. Angel's death created a thousand jobs to done: organizing the funeral, getting the legal affairs in order, telling people…Maureen was feeling claustrophobic because of it all. True, she hadn't had to help with the legal stuff, which was Joanne's thing. One the other hand, Joanne wasn't speaking to her, so that was a major speed bump. Maureen, who dealt with pain by busying herself, had taken the responsibility of the funeral and spreading the word onto her shoulders. Now she wished she hadn't. Never before had she felt something as deep and scarring as losing Angel. She needed to slow down. But that wasn't an option.

Maureen reached the top of the stairs and pushed the door open. The loft was empty except for Mark, who was sitting blankly on the couch, staring at the wall. The filmmaker was doing better by comparison than Roger or Collins. At least he could still respond to most stuff, instead of acting catatonic or storming away the minute anyone said anything. For instance, when Maureen came in, he twitched and jumped up to meet her.

"Maureen! Did it go okay?" She sighed and shrugged off her coat.

"Yeah. The date's set. Halloween." Mark's eyes gave a tiny flash of pain. She looked away and went to the tiny kitchen, where she began rummaging through the mostly empty fridge. Maureen had been living at the loft ever since the last breakup with Maureen. Things were just too weird; she couldn't stay in that apartment. It didn't matter. An extra mattress was all she needed; she spent most of her time out organizing, and she had left most of her more personal things at Joanne's. It was her right to come back for them; still, she didn't know how much longer she could bear those glares shooting at her back whenever she stopped by to pick something up.

"Um, Maureen?" Mark's voice was tentative. She paused and turned to look at him. He looked small and somehow sad. She suddenly realized how hard he was taking this whole thing, how bad working for _Buzzline_ was for him. Mark wasn't used to this anymore than the rest of him. He may have been able to squash his emotion down well, but it certainly was taking its toll on his health.

"What is it, Mark?"

"I...I should have told you earlier, but I just kept hoping he'd snap out of it…um…" Mark wouldn't meet her eyes. Maureen felt a chill go up her back, and she closed the fridge.

"Mark, is it Collins? What's wrong with him?" Mark took a breath and let it out.

"Collins isn't eating. He hasn't since Sunday. I've tried everything I can think of, but he just won't. I'm...worried." Maureen gaped at him. Then she groaned and turned to grab a packet of Ramen noodles from the top of the fridge. She pulled a recently (hopefully) washed pot out of the sink and began to fill it with water.

"Since _Sunday?_ Mark, that's three days ago! You have to tell me these things, this is dangerous for him! C'mon, think for a change, will you?" She plopped the pot on the stove and began the long and frustrating process of getting a fire going. Mark silently turned and made his way to the window, where he climbed out onto the fire escape and leaned against the railing. Maureen gritted her teeth loudly. She hadn't meant to explode like that…but that was just the result of a week like this. Her temper got the better of her. Her emotions were amplified tremendously. She wasn't in control when she most needed to be.

After burning her hand and nearly spilling water everywhere, Maureen finally managed to pour the noodle soup into a chipped bowl. Taking a deep breath she headed for the door to one of the two small rooms that were actually separated from the main loft by doors (not counting the bathroom). Mark and Roger had been sleeping in one; Collins and her in the other. The weird thing was, she knew _he_ would have preferred to sleep alone. It was her who couldn't bear the thought of either being alone or being crowded in slumber. It was her who woke screaming from dreams, her who tossed and turned while muttering names. Not him.

Collins seemed…dead. He hardly talked or moved from the small room, usually lying on his back on the twin mattress that was his bed and staring at the ceiling. He went to the bathroom and (until now, it seemed) ate like a machine executing its programmed directions. People had tried to talk to him and coax him out of the non-responsive trance he seemed to have fallen into, but nothing worked. Ever since he had been found crying in the hospital room, Angel's lifeless body clasped tightly between his arms, the change had overcome him. Even Maureen, who had always been closer to him than the others, was hard pressed to find a way in through the outer shell he had developed. Angel had died, and she had taken Collins with her. He could not live without her. There was nothing left for him.

"Collins? Are you awake?" Maureen pushed open the door with one foot, careful not to let it bang against the opposite wall. Her first glance around the room confirmed what she already knew; Collins was in his usual place, lying on his mattress, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He was dressed in black jeans, a black sweater, boots, and his cap. His eyes were black, empty black. They had never been like that before. He had never been like that before.

"Here, ho—I brought you something." Maureen stumbled over the word "hon"; she had refrained from calling him that since Angel's death. If anything was likely to bring up more pain, Angel's familiar "name" for him was it.

"Mark says you haven't been eating. You can't do that, Collins." She walked over to his side and carefully sat, placing the bowl and a spoon she had snagged gently on the ground. Collins blinked as she settled beside him.

"So?" he said quietly. Maureen sighed inwardly. She was lucky to get that much. Collins might as well have no tongue for all he said now. In truth, the only ones he said anything at all to were Maureen and Roger. They all understood why, though it hurt the rest of them a little, especially Mark. She shrugged and crossed her legs.

"It's not good for you. You need to eat. I made you some Ramen, and don't lie to me, you love this stuff. About as healthy as a traffic cone, but a hell of a lot tastier." Maureen waited for a response. Anything; a snort at her bad joke, a small hum of assent, maybe even a smile. But there was nothing. She could have been speaking to the Ramen itself.

"Baby…please eat this. Don't starve yourself; it's not going to help anything." Collins blinked again. Maureen ground her teeth. She loved to argue with him. This was pure torture. And besides, she could even now tell that he hadn't been eating. His skin was stretched a little tighter across his bones; the comfortable solidness of his body was gone. He appeared gaunt, pained…which was what he really was.

"Collins, please. Please don't do this. Don't do this…to me." Maureen was horrified to hear tears in her voice. Don't cry, you idiot, don't cry. You're strong enough not to do that; besides, you've already cried your eyes out for the last five days, you shouldn't have any tears left.

"It's my choice." His voice again, small and quiet. She felt like yelling, shouting, hitting him. She wanted to fling the bowl against the wall. Maureen took a deep breath. There was no way to reason with him…and then it hit her.

"Starving yourself is not going to bring Angel back." She saw him stiffened, saw something flash in those empty eyes. Her heart leapt hopefully, and at the same time it twisted with grief.

"Collins, I can't imagine how much you miss her, or how much you still love her. I won't try to say I understand, because I don't. But this isn't what she would want. This is not going to help you be happier, or miss her less. It's going to hurt you, and if there was one thing in this world that Angel would have died to prevent, it was you being hurt. If you can't do this for me…do it for her." Maureen rose unsteadily and made for the door. She had to get out, had to escape from the stifling layers of memory and pain…It was making her feeling horribly claustrophobic. She got to the door and wrenched it open, ran out, and shut it firmly behind her. Then she crumpled to the ground.

Maureen curled up in front of the door, her arms around her legs and her head buried in the tops of her knees. She cried again, cried like she cried every day of the week. Where Mark was, she didn't know. Maybe he was still there, but didn't care to help her. She didn't blame him.

Maureen cried for a long time. Then she sat up and calmed herself by taking three deep breaths. She got to her feet and—resisting the urge to check on him—went over and opened her case of papers. She dully flipped through them, signing here or there and scribbling notes. Angel's name leapt out at her on almost every sheet. Maureen clenched her jaw muscles and tried to ignore it.

But that was the thing about Angel. Alive or dead, the one thing that was impossible to do was ignore her. And Maureen thought of that later that night, when she softly came into the tiny room and spied the empty bowl and the Ramen-stained spoon on the floor. She went over and picked them up carefully, so that the clinking of the spoon against the bowl wouldn't wake him. Then she smiled down at his still, sleeping form and whispered, "Thanks a lot, Ang."

**(sniffle)...**


End file.
